


Latrodectus

by chewysugar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, Endgame, Gen, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Endgame, Spoilers, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 04:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18613510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: No two black widows can share the same web.





	Latrodectus

“I _n paradisum deducant te Angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres_...”

Angel voices sang a dirge for a hellion. The vault of the church was set with stained glass depictions of the Orthodoxy: seraphim, cherubs, beatific saints with expressions of utmost piety. It was odd that they should watch over the last rites of someone who’d defected not only from her church, but from her mother country.

The service had concluded; and a procession of mourners walked to the open casket, leaving flowers and trinkets.

None of them noticed the lithe, blonde woman standing near a stone-carved pillar. Had they done so, and they’d have found the amusement on her face cause for proper fury.

How on earth they could have given Romanov such a burial, she didn’t know. Evidently, Americans looked the other way more often than Russians did. Sure, Natasha would have told them bits and pieces of her past—assassinations, cold killings...torture. If they’d known the depths that the Black Widow had sunk to during her time working for another Russia, and they’d have been repulsed.

Still, anger wasn’t the chief feeling in the blonde observer’s heart. How could she be angry? Natasha had won out in the end. In the eyes of her friends—how ridiculous was it that she had friends—and the public, she was a hero. And her past—tinged red with violence—was only another cause for celebration. They loved a good rehabilitation story—proof that the American way won out in the end.

Fools.

Natasha hadn’t let a man, woman or child escape her clutches when she’d come out of the Red Room. They’d thought her the epitome of perfection—cold, calculating, with a viper’s eye for the kill. And then she’d defected. Proof, as far as the woman was concerned, that the Black Widow wasn’t as infallible as she’d been made out to be.

Now this—graceful hymns, a parade of the grief-stricken, and chrysanthemums on her casket. A hero’s death. So perhaps she really was better than the observer gave her credit for. Certainly her memory would be that of one who’d fought for the side of good.

But good and evil were comfortable, easy labels for a mostly lawless world. The reality was that there were those who devoured, and those who were consumed.

When the last mourners walked away, the woman sighed heavily.

Despite the bad blood between them, she couldn’t hate Natasha. Not entirely. After all, the Black Widow had been a mentor and, at one point, a friend. Or the closest thing to a friend a Red Room girl could have.

The thought that they’d never trade barbs or blows was enough to bring a sting of tears to the woman’s eyes. She walked towards the casket. Some of the mourners glanced her way. To them, she was still but a stranger. How much longer remained in the grasp of those angels who hovered in the windows of the church.

Censure and incense made the woman’s nose itch. She’d never been one for religious houses before. But she’d abide. For Natasha. Not because she still held the same affection, but because she knew that the former Black Widow might find it amusing.

Natasha lay preserved, skin flawless and hair red behind her face. She’d once dyed it blonde while on the run. The similarity had bordered on the absurd. But perhaps it had been another one of Romanov’s attempts at humour: see me, sister. I am your mirror. And I am not you.

No. She wasn’t. Because she’d gone and gotten herself killed like a perfect idiot.

Heaving a sigh, the woman bent. She placed a kiss against Natasha Romanov’s dead, cold lips. An errant scarlet strand of hair had fallen out of place. Shaking her head, the blonde woman brushed it aside.

“ _Do svidaniya, sestra_ ,” she whispered. Then she stood, and placed a single, yellow daffodil on the former Black Widow’s chest.

She turned herself to ice, then. She’d given affection it’s due. Now was the time for initiative. Now was the time for the future.

Yelena Belova smirked. The heels of her boots clicked on the stone floor of the cathedral.

The Black Widow was dead. Long live the Black Widow.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope Yelena shows up in the Black Widow movie. And I really hope she's played by Emilia Clarke 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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